To Earthward
by Theresaboheme
Summary: **CHAPTER THREE UPLOADED** Voldemort's attacks reach too close to home, and one person's strange symptoms lead to a startling discovery concerning two of the gang.
1. Chapter one

Chapter One  
  
  
  
--  
  
  
  
From the moment Harry had returned from school his life had been a living nightmare. His welcome hadn't been anything out of the ordinary, of course – his uncle, Vernon Dursley, had waited outside the station in his vehicle and the moment he saw his nephew his face turned a peculiar shade of red that was all too familiar to Harry. He had honked the horn wildly and mouthed from behind the glass something that looked like Hurry up, boy, with expletives randomly inserted throughout.  
  
It was, of course, no better for him on Privet Drive than it had ever been before. Aunt Petunia having decided it was too dangerous to have "his kind" cook meals any more, she'd declared that Harry would be tending to the garden every day this summer, "or else."  
  
"Or else, *what*?" He'd asked, a challenge rising in his throat.  
  
Petunia's horse-like face scrunched up as she fumbled with her words before taking a heavy swing at him with a frying pan, which Harry easily dodged. He pasted a smirk on his face through the grimace that wanted to bubble to the surface. He'd had quite enough of these people and desperately longed to be with a real family.  
  
The sad truth though was, due to the death of his parents, the Dursleys *were* his only family – by law, that is. His mother Lily was sister to his aunt and how they could be related was almost beyond Harry. From what he'd learned of his mother through his parent's friends, his mother was the exact opposite of his foul aunt.  
  
Harry's mother was a witch and his father a wizard. They had been, in fact, two of the hundreds of thousands of magical people on Earth amongst non-magical people, more commonly known as muggles. There were wizarding villages and communities, and wizarding schools, such as the one Harry attended; Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, where young witches and wizards spent seven years (sans Christmas and Summer holidays) in training. They learned to brew potions, use spells and charms, predict the future, defend themselves against dark wizards, and even play quidditch, a game played in the air on broomsticks with different balls.  
  
To the Dursleys, witches and wizards were freaks. They were dangerous. They were not to be associated with. They didn't exist.  
  
Growing up with the Dursleys was extremely difficult for Harry, for they had known he was a wizard even before he did. They had locked him in a cupboard for eleven years of his life. Each summer when he returned to the house, they were sure to make his life a living hell and love every minute of it.  
  
This summer was quite different for Harry though – it would be the last time he'd ever have to see his cousin's chubby pink face and have to listen to his Aunt's screechy voice. One more month and he would be free of them forever. He'd never have to look back.  
  
He put up with the people as best he could, occasionally toying with their minds by pulling out his wand at the breakfast table, or staring at Dudley while whispering made-up spells. Each time a frying pan would come at him and he'd dodge it easily, enjoying the owlish eyes of his aunt when she missed, splattering grease on the far wall.  
  
Unfortunately for the adolescent wizard, tormenting the Dursleys began to bore him after a while. Every time he saw one of them he wished that for a fleeting moment, the Ministry of Magic might turn their heads long enough for Harry to turn his uncle into a couch, his aunt into a coat rack. Every night he sat in his room, rereading Quidditch technique books Hermione had given him as presents in prior years, clipping askew twigs on his broomstick (there were none now) and writing his dear friends, Hermione Granger, and Ron and Ginny Weasley.  
  
They were the only things, really, that kept him sane. He was sure he would've gone mad even with just a month more if it hadn't been for Ron and Hermione weekly letters – and Ginny's daily ones.  
  
Ginny Weasley. Just thinking of Ginny seemed to have an effect on him lately – everything he found that was remotely good in the world seemed to remind him of her, and it didn't take him long to realize how very addictive the smallest Weasley was; the dark honey eyes, the trademark flaming hair, the impish smile she wore so often. They'd grown closer in the past year than Harry had ever been to anyone (with, of course, the exception of Ron and Hermione). She knew about Sirius, Harry's innocent escaped convict godfather, and the Marauders Map, a detailed map of every passage (visible or otherwise) at Hogwarts. She had spent a great deal of time during weekends in the common room studying, reading books, and playing exploding snap and quidditch solitaire – all in his company. He'd even shown her the photograph album Hagrid had given him after first year, which contained a sizeable amount of pictures of his parents.  
  
On the train ride back from Hogwarts she had promised him she'd write often, and she held true to her word, he found – he received his first letter the night he returned from school. It read in small, loopy letters–  
  
Harry –  
  
Just keeping my promise. Hope your vacation's off to a good start.  
  
Ginny  
  
He'd written her back a short, cordial note, and sent it off minutes later – the following night Hedwig swept into the room, dropping a letter on his bed. So started the pattern; he wrote Ginny every night, and every night he received a reply – sometimes they would write for pages, talking about anything mundane and everything not. Sometimes they really didn't say much at all – they just wrote to say they were still writing. By now Harry must have memorized every curve of her writing. He knew when she was angry, when she was frustrated, sad, happy, or even sleepy. He kept every letter she wrote him carefully folded and placed in a stack under the floorboard.  
  
On the twenty-third of July, he received no letter from her – nor did he on the twenty-fourth, or the twenty fifth, or the twenty-sixth, or even the twenty-seventh.  
  
On the twenty-eighth, Harry had gotten into a particularly nasty row with Uncle Vernon. He no longer felt any patience, or the desire to have fun with them by threatening to blast them into oblivion. There had been a great deal of shouting, and even a punch thrown – though by whom, no one was sure. Both ended up slightly bloody in the face, and Harry stalked to his room, slamming the door rather hard.  
  
He lay on his bed for a good hour, staring at the ceiling. He'd quite calmed down, now – he didn't usually let anger take control of him that much, and he'd certainly never gotten into a fight that – physical with anyone. It was usually all wands and curses for him.  
  
It was well after midnight before he moved at all – going to sit at the open window. He'd watch for Hedwig, who hadn't yet returned from delivering his last letters to Ginny and Ron, over a day and a half ago. And she hadn't replied in almost a week. It was plaguing him – though Harry knew if anything was wrong, Ron would've owled him immediately – it must've been the reason the boy had been so testy lately. He couldn't help but worry.  
  
"Where are you, Hedwig?" He sighed, turning from the window and reaching for a piece of paper that lay on the lid of his trunk. He scanned the parchment, frown fading fast.  
  
Harry –  
  
Yes, Hermione'll be here tomorrow, I believe. Ron is already ecstatic. He's cleaning up the house and everything. Mum says it's very strange to see him acting like that for someone – and Hermione, at that. It's not as if she never saw it coming, though. Peculiar.  
  
I miss you, Harry. I went over to Rachel's again today and she put a silencing charm on me to get me to shut up about you. I'm going through Harry withdrawal I suppose. I can't wait to get to Diagon Alley to see you.  
  
I think Ron is getting suspicious – he's getting rather angry that Hedwig swoops into my room every night and not his. Do try to write him more, will you? I don't think he can stand the thought of you and I being friends, but maybe he'll settle.  
  
I do hope everything is going all right – well, all right for over there. I can't stand those horrible people, and I have a feeling it's actually much worse than you let on. Just promise you won't let them get to you so much, okay?  
  
Don't go and curse Dudley. Until you're of age, that is.  
  
Tonight is dull, but the sunset is beautiful.  
  
I think … Well, I think I'm starting to sound like one great big tangent, aren't I? I'm very glad to receive letters from you, is all. It makes me feel as if you weren't so far away.  
  
Ginny  
  
It was the last letter he'd received from her, to date – last Sunday. Since, he'd sent her two letters. But, of course, Ginny's entire existence wasn't centered on him; she had friends and family, and things to do. He only figured that, whatever she was doing, she was having fun.  
  
As he placed the parchment back on the trunk, a faint sound reached his ears – a steady beat he easily recognized as those of an owl. Moments later his snowy white bird swooped in, circling the room once before landing smoothly on the edge of the sill with a small package tied to her leg. He undid the twine carefully and removed the package, stroking Hedwig affectionately with his free hand. She nuzzled against his hand for a moment, then flapped her wings the short distance to her open cage.  
  
"What's 'is you've brought me, here?"  
  
He quietly tore the brown paper, removing it methodically to reveal a tattered book and a small slip of paper. He unfolded it, scanned it quickly by the light of candle –  
  
Harry –  
  
Everything all right over there? (Don't answer that – Hedwig didn't seem too thrilled 'bout going back. Hope you don't mind I kept her for a day. Thanks for the letter, by the way.) Happy early birthday! This isn't your present – not all of it, anyway. I know you'll like it – just remember not to forget anything this time.  
  
Ron  
  
Harry frowned as he reread the letter, more than slightly bewildered by the remarks made -- picked up the book. It was worn and faded and gray-blue with the gold embossment almost completely vanished –he could barely make out the Title; An Anthology of Great Poets, Vol. II – it looked like a book Ginny would read. But what did it have to do with "remembering his stuff"?  
  
The book opened a little too easily and Harry kept it carefully balanced on his lap, afraid it might collapse otherwise. Between the cover and the first page a significantly whiter slip of parchment stood out from the discolored pages of the tome –  
  
It'll activate at 8 A.M. tomorrow morning. We'll all be expecting you.  
  
Ron  
  
"A portkey." Harry was suddenly grinning very wide. He should have realized it right away. Ron was an absolute godsend. He didn't even have to spend – he checked the wall clock – another seven hours with these wretched – muggles. He'd be gone, forever.  
  
He scribbled a note back hastily –  
  
Thanks!  
  
Harry  
  
-- and, after handing it to Hedwig who snatched it up in her beak, stroked her with his index finger. "I'll meet you over there. Night." He watched as the owl soared out of sight and shut the window. He was awfully ready for bed – he wanted to get some sleep before packing in the morning – but he doubted he'd get any sleep. He was already thinking of the expression on his aunt and uncle's faces when they found him gone in the morning.  
  
--  
  
The burrow was asleep, but never silent. There were strange noises from the attic, gnome fights in the garden outside, magically-altered muggle appliances turning themselves on and off sporadically, the sound of small explosions from Fred and George's room (an all-too-familiar yet peculiar occurrence, as they no longer lived there), and, that Friday night, two rather giggly girls sitting up in a small room towards the top of the house.  
  
"Wow, look at that," Hermione whispered, pinning the magazine down with her hands. "'101 Ways To Get Your Man Off The Quidditch Pitch And On You' – reckon you'll need to keep this article on file, this year?" she grinned at Ginny, who had suffered a steady blush for hours now.  
  
Ginny scoffed. "Guys and sports. I'll never understand."  
  
"And you're not meant to," Hermione chided. She rolled onto her stomach. "Just like they'll never understand the concept of common sense."  
  
They'd been like this all night – The floor of Ginny's bedroom had become their camp. Hermione had brought over sacks full of magazines she'd picked up at Diagon Alley, in celebration of one of the two being old enough to make the purchase.  
  
They'd poured over every issue, cover to cover, crying some, laughing a good bit more, and blushing almost without pause.  
  
"You know, if your mother knew you were looking at these--"  
  
"Bah," the redhead waved her hand, "Only another year. I could always get some from Parvati after holiday -- and mum's let me see some before. But, you know, if Ron knew you were looking at these--"  
  
Hermione shook her head. "He'd be speechless for days."  
  
Ginny gave a mute smile, and they went back to reading an "Witch is the Boss?", an article that seemed vaguely reminiscent of … well, just about every other article in all the magazines they'd looked at yet.  
  
Hermione yawned, rubbing her eyes. Ginny was staring at the paper but her mind was obviously elsewhere.  
  
"I miss Harry." Ginny propped her head against her palm, then sighed and lay on her back. Hermione gave a sympathetic smile. "We all do – though I don't quite think I do to the your extent."  
  
"Shut it, 'Mione," Ginny laughed. "Harry and I are – are *friends*." She ignored the fact that Hermione had obviously noticed the blush creeping up her cheeks – she didn't quite feel like getting into it about Harry again. "It upsets me that he has to live with those horrible people – that Dunbar bloke sounds like an absolute peach."  
  
Hermione sighed at Ginny's deliberate misuse of the boy's name. "Yeah, Dudley's … he's a Dursley. But I don't worry about Harry. He handles it all very well. Or puts on like it. I think the Dursleys are afraid of him, honestly."  
  
Ginny nodded. It was true – there was nothing to be worried about. He'd stayed there for many years before, and he was fine. But, last year he'd stayed at the burrow – the summer where it had all begun. This was the longest she'd been away from him since they'd finally started to develop such a strong bond.  
  
Hermione caught the wistful glance. "What's on your mind?"  
  
"Last summer." Her voice was rather casual. Something flickered in her eyes, and Hermione rested her chin on her arms carefully, looking away.  
  
Ginny bit her lip. She really hadn't meant to bring it up – or rather, she'd forgotten Hermione wasn't quite as comfortable with the subject as Ginny was.  
  
It really must've been a horrifying experience for her, Ginny mused. Not knowing what was happening. I would've been scared, too.  
  
*You were scared. Out of your wits.*  
  
But, of course, that was a little different.  
  
Ginny looked at Hermione in the periphery of her vision – she was positive she saw a hint of glistening around her friend's eyes.  
  
"It's late," she murmured. "I suppose we should get to sleep?" The red head nudged the older girl on the arm softly. "I didn't mean to say anything."  
  
"I don't really mean not to," said Hermione. Her eyes had lost their shine but already looked vaguely pink. "Sometime, I'd like to sit down and talk to you about it. I've never heard the whole story, and …" she inhaled deeply, "I'd like to know what you're willing to tell be about the – accident – incident –the --"  
  
She turned to Ginny, who gave her a knowing smile; her voice was soft. "The attack. And I think that's a good idea."  
  
Before Hermione could say anything else, Ginny pushed herself tiredly to her feet and trudged the short distance to the bed; pulled back the covers and slipped in comfortably as Hermione adjusted some pillows on the floor. The candles were blown out, and Ginny waited until her friend's breathing came in even strokes before willing herself to sleep as well.  
  
-- 


	2. A Tall Drink of Pumpkin Juice

Chapter Two -- A Tall Drink Of Pumpkin Juice  
  
--  
  
At seven fifty-five, Harry was scrambling around his room quietly extracting things from their hiding places between the mattress and box springs, under the floorboard, in his pillowcase, behind the rickety dresser and anywhere else he'd stuck something he decided his dear aunt and uncle shouldn't know about. During the night he'd retrieved his broom from under the cupboard, careful to skip the stairs that would creak beneath his feet.  
  
He tucked his wand into his belt carefully and folded his arms over his chest, inspecting the room. He'd gathered everything he owned and placed it in the center of the room. Harry realized his possessions had certainly increased in number – not to the amount that many people had, of course, for he only bought what he could manage to carry. The Dursleys weren't too keen on letting him buy things for himself and he was amazed he had this much. It was almost too much to manage. If it weren't for the Port Key, he certainly wouldn't be able to juggle all his items without aid of magic.  
  
He located the final item – the tome on the floor next to the bed stand, along with the slip of parchment Ron had sent – We'll all be expecting you – and he shook his head, hoping it was true. He wasn't sure he was prepared for the wrath of Ginny Weasley in the morning on holiday – she wasn't a morning person, and her brothers had the scars to prove it.  
  
Three minutes until eight o'clock. Harry sat on the edge of his bed and the springs squealed softly under him. He'd never have to sleep on that bed again, or hide things under the floorboard, or have to do all his homework by the mere light of one candle. So much was changing it made his head want to spin. His birthday was in three days – his seventeenth. He'd be an adult wizard by law, no longer restricted from using magic wherever he wanted to. He was going into his last year at Hogwarts, seventh year; in a year's time he'd be out in the real world.  
  
He'd changed physically, as well, and mostly over the summer. He was still quite lean – he'd always be fairly lanky, he guessed – but he had gained a bit more muscle and was a great deal taller, reaching a good bit over six feet. He now beat his uncle's height and matched Ron's. His face looked less boyish, and not quite as gaunt as it had in years passed. But his eyes were the same startling green and his black hair, now slightly more shaggy, still constantly looked unkempt. It just looked more … intended, now.  
  
He glanced at his enchanted digital wristwatch, which had begun steadily blinking a warning that Harry only had thirty more seconds before the port key was activated. He leapt from the bed and stepped the short distance to the center of the room. Harry carefully balanced the book on the only corner of his trunk that didn't have things piled on top and placed his hand over it firmly, preparing himself for the unpleasant pull he'd soon feel at his navel.  
  
The young man glanced up at the mirror.  
  
Yes, things certainly had changed.  
  
It had been a while since Harry had been injured physically – Quidditch accidents included, it had been almost a year. Harry had never, though, been hit by Vernon. His beefy uncle always seemed more afraid of the boy, much to Harry's satisfaction, and until the previous night the thought had honestly never crossed his mind that dear uncle would lay a finger on him.  
  
Guess I was wrong in that assumption, he mused bitterly.  
  
Harry scrubbed his jawbone with his fingers in the spot that a bruise had occupied minutes prior and silently thanked Hermione for giving him that healing cream during fifth year. It was stiff and pale, translucent green, and carried an aroma vaguely similar to that of honey and lemon. Not at all unpleasant though, compared to tonics he'd had before, and it worked very well – the gash drawn across his cheek had disappeared along with the swelling in mere seconds, his skin mending itself. All signs that Harry had been at the raw end of a deal that was already very bad in the first place had dissipated and left him with no more than slight stubble.  
  
He forced himself to look down from the mirror and noticed the tip of what looked to be a sugar quill just below the dresser. It wasn't of much importance however, as just when it was discovered, the very person who had discovered it vanished with a small whir of wind.  
  
--  
  
The light slowly poured into the room, tugging Hermione's eyelids open. A barrage of yellow clouded her vision for a moment – the sun reflected off the mirror and directly onto her face. She winced, rolling over and buried her head in the pillow, not quite ready for a new day to begin. She'd had a most interesting dream about a bowl of petunias and -- and –  
  
No, the dream was forgotten. The sun was intent on willing her to rise. Feeling the pull she'd familiarized herself with by six prior years of weekday mornings at school, she rolled back over and hesitated, groaning, before pushing herself up and to her feet wearily.  
  
She had to stop staying up till Merlin-knows-when with Ginny.  
  
Stretching, she stepped the short distance to the vanity (the mirror snorted, adding an "I hope you don't plan on leaving the room like that …") and rubbed her eyes with the pads of her palms, letting them re-adjust to the light.  
  
There was nothing quite like a morning at the burrow. Every other time of day it seemed full-to-burst with some kind of activity, but mornings left the house almost unusually silent. Much to the dismay of Mr. And Mrs. Weasley, their elder children had flown the coup in search of an independent life – Ron and Ginny were the only children that remained, and they only lived at home during summer holiday. Arthur had been leaving for work far before the sun rose every morning, and Molly had been attending Witch Empowerment sessions at Mildred Scalthe's house across the village. Every morning was filled with a thick silence that left them feeling quite deaf; Hermione found herself enjoying it immensely.  
  
She smoothed her wayward hair with one hand and glanced back at Ginny who slept on her side facing the wall with her forearm partially covering her face. The girl slept like a rock, so it wouldn't have made a bit of difference had the house been in its normal state. She still tip-toed to the opposite wall to grab her dress robes before slinking to the door and slipping out, her cat Crookshanks underfoot.  
  
Hermione's hand on the new hall clock was pushing towards breakfast soon; she walked down the stairs, taking each step slowly to avoid any slumberous stumbles, and, running her hand down the length of the railing as she walked, reached the bottom.  
  
Hermione stood in the living room for several moments with half-lidded eyes, weighing her options. Breakfast was almost ready, and she wanted to get a shower before anyone else – she didn't feel like performing hot-water charms so early in the day – but the worn couch in the corner looked so very inviting…  
  
She'd dragged herself half way to the sofa when he heard the door squeal behind her, and she saw a head of mussed red hair pop out from the kitchen.  
  
"Oy, you're up now. I cooked breakfast, if you want any."  
  
Though she was famished, she knew that she'd be forced to eat his food even if she wasn't – which wasn't a bad thing, really. Ron was an excellent cook; two years of summer lessons from his mother had proven to do some good to the second youngest Weasley and from what she'd tasted since her arrival at the burrow, his skill had only improved. As it was, she hadn't eaten very much at dinner the previous night and the thought of any kind food left her salivating; the appeal of *his* food was enough to persuade her to the kitchen. She groaned, gave a last longing look towards the furniture and padded towards the door as his head disappeared into the adjacent room.  
  
She slid into a seat heavily and eyed the assortment of foods on the table – her boyfriend had obviously gotten up early. There was hardly any place to set a plate as the table was loaded with all the different types of breakfast foods imaginable, many of which she'd never encountered before. She lifted her eyes to look at Ron – he met her gaze expectantly, bracing his hands on the edge of the table and leaning his entire body weight forward in a very bartender-esqe fashion.  
  
"What'll you have?"  
  
"Hmm …" she tapped her finger against her cheek, flashing her teeth when she yawned. "A piece of toast … some of those fish tarts … oh! Are those Chipolatas? One, please ... a cauldron cake … er …that's all for the moment."  
  
"You'd better be having seconds," Ron chided. "I've been up since six."  
  
"No one made you get up that early."  
  
"But don't you want to get those brain cells moving?"  
  
"At eight o'clock on a holiday?"  
  
"This, coming from a girl who studies ahead for fun."  
  
Hermione rolled her eyes. "We're coming up on beginning of term, you know, and it wouldn't--"  
  
"Hurt me to study – I know, I know." Ron wiped his hands on his pants.  
  
"I'm not saying you have to memorize your lessons, Ron. It wouldn't hurt to look over them, though. Get a head start, you know?"  
  
Ron shook his head, and Hermione decided it best not to push him – criticizing his study habits at eight in the morning wouldn't do any good. It was a lesson she'd learned years back, but it was amusing to bring up the subject every once and a while.  
  
She took a bite of chipolata and sighed slightly; the boy really could cook, she mused. "Don't worry, I have a feeling there won't be a problem getting rid of all this." She wiped her mouth with a napkin, laid it back in her lap carefully, and reached for her pumpkin juice.  
  
"Oh!" Ron smacked himself in the side of the head, checking his wristwatch. "Blimey, it's nearly eight…"  
  
"And?"  
  
"And Harry'll be here any minute--"  
  
"What?" Hermione released the grip on her glass and it toppled; pale, pulpy orange liquid soiled the floor and wall. She gaped at Ron.  
  
He blinked. "Oh, Merlin, I forgot to tell you! Hedwig came this morning. Harry's coming today. Should be here any time now…"  
  
She stood up, chair tipping backwards and meeting the floor with a dull thud. "What? How? Why didn't you tell me? Did Dumbledore approve this? Why, look at my hair, and I haven't taken a shower or anything…" she turned and sprinted into the downstairs WC, smoothing her hair down, gargling water, straightening her pajamas. "Where're my slippers? I can't believe you didn't tell me! And I haven't wrapped his birthday present, and Ginny's still working on her gift. The den is a mess – won't you pick up your chess set? -- I'm covered in pumpkin juice! – You didn't tell Ginny? What time is it?"  
  
From his perch at the counter, Ron watched the flailing arms and wide eyes with a fair amount of amusement.  
  
"Come on, Hermione. It's only Harry."  
  
"Oh, I know, but I'm a mess. I haven't seen him in over a month, and …"  
  
"Ah, I'm sure he'll be happy just to see you. He's been staying with the Dursleys. Sit down before I go mad!"  
  
Hermione paused, hands poised on her hair, and calculated the half-amused, half-annoyed expression plastered on Ron's face. She sighed, completed her ponytail, and placed her hands on her hips.  
  
"Well?"  
  
"Well, what?"  
  
"You *did* ask Dumble--"  
  
"Yeah, yeah. Wrote him at the beginning of the summer. He said the wards still work and all, and Harry will be fine. Dad and I were planning for it to be a surprise, but he was at the ministry until late last night, 'course. I meant to tell you all. Now," he wiped his hands on his pants unnecessarily, "You need your wand?"  
  
She managed a stunned "Yes, thank you" and he cast a summoning spell -- it floated down the narrow staircase, through the living room and into her expectant hands. "Thanks…" She mumbled a few hasty spells to smooth out her hair and transfigured her sticky, orange stained pajamas into a knee- length denim skirt and white v-neck shirt. She walked into the bathroom again – this time with a much more leisurely stride – gave a satisfied nod, and strode into the kitchen again. "Better," she grinned.  
  
Ron pushed himself from the counter and opened his mouth to say something – but his words never escaped him and were immediately forgotten and a small whir, promptly followed by a resounding thump, and an "Ouf!" emanated from the living room.  
  
--  
  
Harry's eyes snapped open in time to see a blur of warm colors before he toppled forward, instinctively thrusting his palms in front of him – he barely prevented his face slamming into the hardwood floor, glasses flying off his head and clattering across the floor.  
  
"Ouf!" he winced, took a deep breath.  
  
His senses were quickly overwhelmed by the burrow – the scent of Molly Weasley's perfume and breakfast foods, sun filtering through the window with a morning breeze and the sound of footsteps, tow sets; one heavy and clumsy, one light and even.  
  
"Oy, Harry!" he felt a pair of strong hands heave him up by the shoulders; a tall, limber blur, pale, with a mop of bright orange hair. He shook his head and smiled.  
  
"Ron – Hermione," he nodded to a fuzzy figure who was crouched on the floor, muttering a spell under her breath. She placed the repaired glasses in his hand.  
  
He slipped on his glasses as the petite brunette stood up so quickly she almost toppled over, gave a jovial "Harry!" and fiercely wrapped her arms around his midriff. He jolted, rather taken aback by the sign of affection even after only a month with the Dursleys, and hesitated before slipping one arm around her.  
  
Ron rolled his eyes, giving Harry a comical look.  
  
"My…" Harry looked down at Hermione, who pulled back, placing her hands on her hips again, and she pursed her lips. "My, my. Goodness, Harry, How tall're you now?"  
  
He shrugged, pushed his glasses up with his index finger. "I've sprouted a bit, I s'pose."  
  
"Sprouted? You barely look like Harry anymore! What, with the height, the muscles …"  
  
"'Scuse me?" Ron mocked indignation and slung an arm around her shoulder. Harry laughed.  
  
Being back at the burrow was quite literally a homecoming for him, rather like returning to Hogwarts every year. He gazed around the room fondly. The walls were painted a florid orange pink (as they had been since Harry could remember) and photographs were placed at intervals, displaying nine heads of fiery hair and nine faces smiling warmly at him. As his eyes fell upon the last picture which was hanging low in a corner just above Mrs. Weasley's hunter green over-stuffed sitting chair, his stomach fluttered. In the frame the youngest redhead lounged on the low-hanging limb of a birch, her back resting in the divot where it diverged from the trunk. Her limber legs straddled the thick branch and swung limply, and her toes wiggled gently in the wind -- it was one of the only times he had seen her sans socks. She seemed to be thoroughly engrossed in a book, though Harry was sure he caught her peering over the top of the hardbound tome with smiling eyes. Subsequently, he was almost positive her body was shaking with mirth, which didn't surprise him a bit. The picture looked as if it was made very recently, and on a rather warm and muggy day. She was wearing a sleeveless top -- he could've sworn it was one of Ron's beaters, probably from third year. He decided he liked it on Ginny much better, as it was already rather form-fitting and the heat caused it to cling --  
  
"Hungry?"  
  
Harry shook himself from the stupor that had suffocated his stream of consciousness and tilted his head. "Hmm?"  
  
"Are you hungry? Ron's gone crazy cooking, again and you've probably not had breakfast yet. He made Chipolatas …"  
  
"Oh? That sounds good. Is Hedwig here?"  
  
Ron nodded his head slightly. "Just early this morning. She's dead tired, mate."  
  
"Ah, I've worn her down," Harry grinned. "I'll run up to see 'er before I get settled, if you don't mind."  
  
Ron waved his hand absently, muttering "Go on, then – and bang on Gin's door a few times on your way, eh? Honestly, I cooked this nice big breakfast!"  
  
Harry started slightly and made a face that Ron couldn't quite read; but, as quick as the Weasley boy had seen it, it had been replaced by his friend's trademark half smile.  
  
"Right. Be back down in a moment, then --" and he turned and took the steps slightly faster than normal and two at a time, passing the door to Ginny's room completely.  
  
--  
  
Ginny inhaled sharply and opened her eyes with a start, clutching her pillow and pressing the palm of her other hand hard against the wall. Her vision was bombarded with brilliant hues of red and orange that faded quickly into a gray; her hands abandoned the wall and pillow for her face and she rubbed her eyes furiously. The first thought that fully registered was that her head throbbed sharply at the temples. She rolled away from the wall and onto her back heavily.  
  
"Dream." She exhaled. She'd had a dream. A dream about … something.  
  
Ginny frowned at herself, kicking a leg out from the confines of the covers and pushing over a book that had teetered on the edge of the small bed for two days. It fell with a short, mournful thump. She registered the sound in a part of her mind that would probably stay dormant for at least another fifteen minutes and willed her eyes to stay open long enough to adjust to morning.  
  
"Dream …" She couldn't help a shudder and it rocked her body, forcing her to press harder on her temple in a vain attempt to lessen the pain. Across the room a thin outline of treetops quivered in the wind. She blinked. Trees, woods. Dream. What was that dream about?  
  
The temporarily dormant sector of her mind also controlled coherent thought.  
  
She yawned, pushed herself to her feet clumsily and stumbled forward, ignoring the mirror as it spat a nasty remark. Running a hand through her thick, wayward hair, she swung open the door and padded out into the hall. Eight paces right, she pulled with all her weight at the door until the dormant sector got impatient and reminded her to push the door open, which she did with a fair amount of ease. She looked at the medicine cabinet mirror, her deadpanned expression staring back. The muscles in her forehead contracted with confusion.  
  
"Dream," she muttered. "There was a dream …" And she swung open the medicine cabinet and rifled through different bottles and packages, finally clutching a small, triangular vial containing a thick, cobalt blue liquid: MacMillian's Practically-All-Ailment Tonic, Single Dose. She pulled out the stopper and drained the liquid, grimacing as the thick, salty fluid slid down her throat.  
  
She slammed the cabinet shut, stared into the mirror for a moment. Her headache remained. She groaned and dragged herself out of the bathroom.  
  
"Ouf!" she slammed into a body and toppled forward, grasping the person by the shirt to gain her balance -- but whoever it was, was apparently caught off guard and came crashing to the floor as well. They lay in a heap, scrambling to untangle limbs.  
  
She might have tried to associate the collision with her dream, but her mind chose that exact moment to awaken and the dream lay forgotten somewhere between the medicine cabinet and the site of collision. The pain in her crown had now doubled. "Gods, Ron, can't you watch where you're going?"  
  
"Sorry, I'd taken my glasses off." The male voice replied, stuttering slightly.  
  
"Well, you can take your bloody glasses and --" She froze.  
  
Ron didn't wear glasses. Ron's voice wasn't nearly as deep. She sniffed. And Ron didn't wear … was that cologne? Ginny was now almost fully awake and she lifted her gaze to scan the perpetrator, her eyes sliding over his lank form. And Ron didn't own khaki pants and a shirt like that … didn't have that *physique* …  
  
She gasped. Ron definitely didn't have a mop of messy, ink-black hair and bright green eyes.  
  
"Harry?"  
  
The boy -- man -- across from her, still on the floor, grinned at her. "Morning." He dusted off his slacks and began climbing to his feet.  
  
"Mwhssi?" She shook her head, dazed, mouth open, staring up at him wearily. For a moment she thought to ask if he was the product of an illness-induced hallucination, because his appearance was oddly surreal -- she didn't remember his voice as quite so low, and the person before her was quite a bit taller and more muscular, though still on the lean side. But his eyes held everything that made him Harry. She could see the flecks of darker green around the edges fading into the bright emerald that lay just before the black core, and in them she could see what his face couldn't seem to show anymore – a certain degree of innocence was held there.  
  
Then her eyes widened and she scrambled to her feet, pausing for a moment to take him in again, her tall drink of pumpkin juice; she then gave a small squeal and bowled into him, half laughing, half crying. "What -- when -- how – wh -- ? Harry!" He wrapped his arms around her without hesitation, his chest vibrating low with mirth even though he was still rather winded from the fall.  
  
"I got here this morning by way of Port Key – I thought Ron told you?"  
  
"No – 'course, we're talking about Ron, here." Her face was still pressed against his chest. The act was half way out of affection, and half because she didn't want him to see the way her eyes were watering.  
  
She honestly didn't know why -- she *had* missed him, deeply, and had informed him of the fact in the letters she wrote. But there was something deeply unsettling about the thought of someone seeing her cry, especially Harry.  
  
He'd seen her cry before. Everyone who'd ever met Ginny had probably seen her choke back tears at one time or another. But now, she was sixteen. She was experienced, stronger. She didn't want to cry anymore. With the war looming in the wizarding world, she had no choice.  
  
With a pang, she realized how long it had been since she actually stopped to think about the Dark war. She'd gotten rather used to it, after three grueling years of double-DADA classes and heightened security everywhere at the orders of the Ministry of Magic. She was sorry to admit it, but as the attacks seemed to come to a halt, and Voldemort was still in hiding (though very powerful), the air had become slightly more relaxed.  
  
And it was amazing that she could feel that way, after all that had happened.  
  
She guessed he could sense something -- he pulled back but looped his arm around her shoulder as she cleared her throat.  
  
"You've certainly changed, haven't you? Been taking Sir Yaffe's Amazing Growth Spurt Potion lately?"  
  
He chuckled. "I've heard this before somewhere."  
  
"I take it you've talked to Hermione, then."  
  
"Yes, for a moment." He paused, removed his hand from her shoulder and tipped his head towards the floor, squinting. Her muttered something she couldn't quite make out and pulled his wand out from its place tucked in his belt. "Accio glasses -- ah!" Ginny watched as the glasses wobbled on their perch at the edge of a stair before flying into his open hand. He tucked his wand back into place and slipped on his glasses, making sure to adjust them with his index finger as they'd already started to slip down the bridge of his nose. He turned to Ginny, looking quite relieved to actually see her face clearly; she knew he was as good as blind without them.  
  
"I was just on my way to breakfast. Ron told me to wake you up, but I suppose I was too late. Join me?" He jerked his head toward the staircase, his face expectant. She shook her head slightly.  
  
"No, I think I'll get the shower before Hermione does. I should be down in a while, though…" she blinked several times and shook her head to herself, hair flying.  
  
He nodded, still smiling, though his disappointment was evident. "I'll see you in a few minutes, then. We can catch up on what's been going on the past week." His voice stayed warm and inviting but Ginny immediately recognized he meant to bring up why she hadn't written him. She hoped he hadn't been too bothered by it – explanations would come later, though.  
  
As he was about to turn her face twisted into a sleepy smile and she padded back up to him, wrapping her arms over his shoulders. She raised to tips of her toes, just enough to press her lips against his jawbone without tilting her head back. She pulled back, gave a slight smile –  
  
"Welcome back, Harry." He gave her a brief, fond glance before turning to descend the stairs.  
  
She waited in silence until he was completely out of view before screwing her face and stalking back to the bathroom. She proceeded to shut the door harder than she meant to, wincing as the sound sliced the air, and balanced herself on the edge of the bathtub, her heart thumping wildly.  
  
Just what was she on about, kissing him?  
  
*It was a friendly kiss. He knows that.*  
  
No, a cheek kiss would've been friendly -- a peck. But her kiss was on the jaw, clearly out of territory for a friendly kiss. And it had lingered, too. She didn't pull away for seconds, which definitely made it seem more intimate -- to her, at least. Did he feel the same way? He was completely casual about it; she was sure his ears weren't burning like hers, his face flushed with embarrassment. Maybe *he* saw it was a friendly kiss. They were friends, after all -- very close friends -- but was their friendship close enough to license out of territory kissing?  
  
*Gods, Hermione's magazines are destroying my brain cells.*  
  
She sat for a moment, absolutely furious with herself, before hoisting herself up and turning to the tub. She ran the water as hot as she could get it – her headache had considerably worsened in the last few minutes and felt as if it were ready to spread throughout the rest of her body. She must be getting ill, she decided. MacMillian's tonic usually worked instantaneously, but apparently hadn't taken effect.  
  
*I'll wait for it to work then,* she decided.  
  
After that kiss, she didn't mind taking her time before going downstairs to breakfast.  
  
--  
  
(A big thanks to everyone who left notes! Sorry it took so long to get out! Also, thanks to Amy, my beta reader and Comma Slayer … Rach, my long distance sanity … Gladys, the Waffle House waitress! Next chapter, coming soon!) 


	3. Chapter Three Still Ill

--  
  
Chapter Three - Still Ill  
  
--  
  
As the bathroom door shut heavily upstairs, Harry eased onto the bottom stair, his legs cramped towards his chest. His face was indifferent but his hands were trembling and his heart was pulsating at an absurd rate.  
  
That kiss -  
  
*Tell me about it.*  
  
It was a kiss, but barely - such a small peck that it seemed practically nonexistent. In fact, if he hadn't heard her lips smack slightly as they left his face he wouldn't have thought it a kiss at all. But after that kiss . . .  
  
Almighty Merlin.  
  
He ran a hand through his hair in a trademark fashion and trailed his fingers across one side of his face, stopping to linger at the skin where her lips had touched his jawbone; then to the place where her eyelashes, long and damp with tears, had grazed his cheek. She'd touched him in the same places Uncle Vernon had -  
  
I wonder if she could have the same effect on me that goop of Hermione's had, he thought with a smirk; after the kiss a mark remained under the skin of his cheek that almost seemed to sting, as if he had been branded. It felt sharp, like thousands of pinpricks on him, Harry thought - like the flesh there was awakening after seventeen years of sleep.  
  
*What if that was what saved you that night?*  
  
It was a notion that couldn't be helped and even though it had come from his own mind the thought jolted him - he could sense something, a barrage of vague images and half-conscious retrospection swelling inside him. The memories were enough to cause a twinge in his forehead, and immediately he smothered it.  
  
The raid was something he wasn't keen to think about. In fact, from the moment he'd woken up that morning to discover all that had occurred, he had become adamant about not discussing anything that had happened on the days surrounding his sixteenth birthday; not with his friends, Sirius, or even Dumbledore. Most notably, though, he had all but refused to even think about the occurrence himself. It was a decision he'd made in the instant his eyes had opened to gaze at the alabaster ceiling of St. Mungo's intensive care ward.  
  
The young man swallowed, briefly closing his eyes before pushing himself to his feet and stretching his legs. He tried to clear his mind, but for a brief moment his stubbornness refused to secede.  
  
*She saved you that night. It should have been impossible. How can you not want to talk about it?*  
  
It's good that I haven't. Not as if she needs me to bring up painful memories.  
  
*Harry Potter -Pathetic Wimp Extraordinaire . . .*  
  
In the kitchen something crashed and a squeal resounded, causing a smile to form on his lips; in any case, Harry was more than glad to be there, and he wasn't intent on letting bad memories creep up on him and take over his life. He had to remind himself of this at times but it had become lessened - everyone seemed fairly content. From beyond the swinging door Ron chortled and Harry drew up a bigger grin, picturing a scoff he found to be on Hermione's face as he walked in the kitchen.  
  
--  
  
The morning passed quickly. While Ginny stayed in the bath for most of the time, Harry and his friends sat at the breakfast table and recalled small events of the summer. The majority of the anecdotes were from Ron or Hermione, and Harry found them all entertaining; he was in stitches when Hermione regaled him with tales of Ron's mishaps and run-ins with Fred and George's old tricks (none of which Ron found particularly amusing).  
  
The clock was just striking noon as the door to the Burrow was swatted open and a quartet of boisterous adolescents tumbled out into the sun. Harry and Ron were the first on the lawn and, likewise, the first off. Before the girls could round the corner of the house with Ginny's art supplies and Hermione's books their counterparts shoved themselves from the earth rather hard, kicking up a good bit of ground as they soared and stepping on the heads of some already moody gnomes.  
  
Hermione set her books carefully on the edge of an aged, unfinished side table and sat on a lawn chair opposite Ginny, who had already begun to rummage through her supply box, muttering about what was plainly a missing art instrument. She kept her face buried in the warped container under a screen of slightly damp, deep red curls, while waving her free hand towards Hermione.  
  
"Are you done with Possession already?"  
  
Hermione shook her head rather uselessly, as Ginny wasn't looking at her. "Still got a few chapters, but I thought I'd practice my Arithmancy while I had some free time - don't give me that look. Are you painting or drawing today?" Ginny stayed bent over the box for a moment, then quickly flipped back to a vertical stance, hissing through her teeth. She smiled triumphantly at the small stick she held in her left hand.  
  
"Looks like charcoal today." The Weasley girl situated herself carefully, drawing her knees towards her chest to form an easel with her torso and propped the large sketchpad against her thighs. "Don't know what I'll draw, though . . ."  
  
"Hmm. Landscape?"  
  
"Don't think so."  
  
"Portrait?"  
  
Ginny tapped her coal against the edge of the pad for a moment in contemplation before nodding. "Right, then. Get comfortable because I won't have you moving in the middle of the sketch; I've got a headache and no patience."  
  
Hermione smiled for a brief moment before registering the fact that she was the object of the portrait, a fact which should have been obvious as she was the only other being around.  
  
"What -now?"  
  
"Well, yes, now," Ginny sighed, "it's not as if I intend to have the gnomes try and pose for me. Go on, now, get situated."  
  
Hermione scoffed and began protesting, her voice shrill and adamant, but a smirk tugged at the corners of her lips and she made an obvious movement to ease more into her chair, pushing a tuft of puffy hair away from her face before returning her eyes to her textbook, completely unable to concentrate.  
  
--  
  
From the second Harry had pushed off the ground something pivoted inside him; his blood accelerated its pace through his veins, and the bones in his wrists and hands cracked as he rhythmically tightened and relaxed his grip on the handle. He'd not wasted any time gradually building up speed as Ron did -- in fact, he'd expedited with such immense speeds it was almost too difficult for him to steer his broom away from the quickly approaching edge of the forest. He veered right merely feet from an Elm and flew along the tree line, not ready to settle at a reasonable pace. It had been much too long since he'd felt that familiar surge of adrenaline as he rushed through the open air. He felt as if maybe he'd not been getting enough oxygen in his body by being stuck on the ground during his stay on Privet Drive. The sun produced a glare on his glasses, but there was a slight breeze in the air, creating more intense friction against him, expelling the ink-black locks of hair from his forehead. That feeling - the resistance of his own body against the atmosphere - was so intense he felt he couldn't live without it.  
  
He had circled countless laps round the perimeter of the Weasley's property, pushing his broom to soar at incredible speeds without a thought of slowing down for a thirty minutes before his friend flagged him down.  
  
It was obvious that Ron's broom was fully exerting itself; the thing was much too worn to be racing with one in as good a condition as Harry's Firebolt still was. Harry flew in lazy circles at a speed that, while Ron found completely acceptable, made Harry's fingers itch to force himself forward.  
  
"That still flies bloody amazing, mate." Ron nodded towards Harry, then gave a slightly wistful glance towards his own broomstick.  
  
"Up for a game of catch-Quidditch, then?"  
  
Ron shook his head. "How 'bout Grumplebash? You can start."  
  
Harry nodded and flew about slightly faster as Ron summoned the grumple ball - the small brown sphere sailed out of the open garage window and into Ron's open hands.  
  
"'Arry, you ready?"  
  
Harry easily lowered his broom into position, drifting to a height of a mere twenty feet from the ground -- his hands abandoned the broomstick and he poised them at his sides. Ron stayed balanced, the ball tucked under one arm while he cracked his knuckles. He was squinting towards the burrow.  
  
"What are they doing over there?"  
  
Harry shrugged. "I can't see any better than you. Looks like Herm's studying --", Ron feigned a gasp, " - and I think Ginny's drawing."  
  
Ron snorted. "Big surprise. Though she never shows me any of her drawings. Not very nice if you ask me."  
  
Harry frowned. "You've not seen any of her drawings?"  
  
"No, I said she's never let me see any. 'Course I've looked at 'em," Harry noted that Ron's voice held a twinge of pride for his younger sibling. "She's really good, too. Pity she won't show anyone - you ready now?" Ron tossed the ball between hands. "Harry?"  
  
"Mmm?" Harry eyed Ginny for another moment, watching her place a hand against her lowered eyes, before shaking his head and attempting to return his attention to Ron.  
  
"Are you -" Ron asked but his attention was cut short as his gaze averted to Harry's right. For a fleeting second the red-haired person's eyes had widened in alarm, and Harry's eyebrows furrowed.  
  
"Look out!"  
  
Harry, completely unaware, took a startling blow to his side as a large gray owl slammed into him.  
  
The crash alone was something the skilled seeker might've handled had he been holding the broom with his hands, but the impact caused it to jerk to the right and bob unsteadily in the air as Harry's body flipped upside down. His legs were locked over the handle instinctively but the collision had left him in a daze that prevented him from reaching to grip the broomstick with his hands. He glimpsed a shower of dark feathers around him and the earth looming below him in a blur. Then the broom tipped, his legs slid off the edge of the handle, and while at the other end of the yard a girl cried out in pain, he toppled to the ground.  
  
--  
  
"First day here, and you're already bedridden. Very smooth, 'Arry." Ron said. He tossed a pillow to Hermione and she shook her head, sighing, and placed it behind Harry's lower back, keeping a hand braced against his shoulders. She'd been trying to adjust pillows carefully, but to no avail. The pillows were always too hard, too soft, or too lumpy - he'd absolutely refused to try Fred and George's old pillows, declaring them a "safety hazard" - and Hermione had to work slowly enough not to disturb the charms she'd put on him.  
  
"You'd think with how much time you'd spent in the hospital you'd be used to discomfort by now," Ron chuckled. "Tea?"  
  
Harry groaned. "It's probably not a good idea for me to drink anything." At the quizzical looks on his friend's faces, he added "I might not be able to get off the couch for a while." Hermione gently pulled him back onto the pillows and he winced at the movement, but gave a grateful nod towards his friends when he was reclined on the cushions. "Perfect, Herm."  
  
"Mrs. Weasley's already begun brewing the potions you'll need in the single cauldrons," Hermione said. "It usually takes about twenty hours to finish brewing, except for a muscle reliever, which only takes about four to six. I'm sure we can ask her what would be the best way to - " she started, referring to his response to the tea offer, and her face went a bit red. " -- well, yes. Can I get you anything else?"  
  
"Maybe some all-ailment tonic for my head," Harry said.  
  
"No good. We got a defective batch." The three looked up at Ginny, who had entered carefully through the kitchen door, pushing it open with one foot. She walked with small, quick steps, balancing the tea tray awkwardly on her left arm and gripping the edge with her right hand. It teetered slightly and she paused before setting the tray on the table.  
  
"Defective batch?" Hermione asked.  
  
"I took some this morning and it didn't work at all." Ginny said, her voice sounding overly light.  
  
Harry watched Ginny from the couch, eyeing her movements warily. He hadn't noticed her looking ill that day but as he gazed at her he saw how pale she seemed when she bent down towards the coffee table. Her movements were careful and and her eyes glistened . . . there was something else there . . . fear? Ginny Weasley's eyes were never something he could easily understand.  
  
"Harry, darling, I brought you something to drink." Mrs. Weasley hurried into the room with a cup of steaming broth.  
  
He protested - "Mrs. Weasley, I'm-"  
  
"Don't even think it, Harry. This will make you feel much better." She placed the cup in his hands, pushed against his pillows slightly, summoned some Quidditch magazines from Ron's room, and brushed his hair from his forehead, then remarking "Oh, dear, you've got a spot, right here around your jaw. It's a bit red. I'll find something to take care of that in the cupboards. Ginny, darling, can you help me in the kitchen?"  
  
He blinked. The door swung open and he saw Ginny disappear from the room behind her mother, with slightly faster steps. In his hands, the cup he held sent delicate wisps of stream into his nostrils, and he felt the bitter pungency of a sleeping draught with which Mrs. Weasely had laced the pumpkin cider.  
  
"Fancy a magazine, Harry?" Ron asked, but the young man just shook his head slightly and poured the liquid down his throat methodically, Ginny's face playing on his mind. Sleep came almost instantly.  
  
--  
  
In the kitchen Molly darted back and forth between four miniature cauldrons and the kitchen table where her youngest child and only daughter sat carefully mincing ingredients.  
  
"Poor Harry," Molly sighed, dispensing a fistful of small brown leaves into one of the cauldrons. "That boy doesn't exactly have to go looking for trouble, does he?"  
  
"No, he doesn't."  
  
"I s'pose we should be glad he stays with the Dursleys some, as he doesn't get injured over there, but Merlin help me, I can't stand him being over there with such horrible Muggles. I'm sorry the surprise of finding him here wasn't exactly as Ron and your father had planned." She paused, glancing back at her daughter, and took in the girl's appearance. Something was amiss.  
  
"Hmm." Ginny's fingers moved along the wooden board gingerly as she sliced a plant stalk into centimeter-long pieces, but the knife was dull and each cut made a loud thud against the surface. She was frowning.  
  
"Did you see whose owl it was?"  
  
"No . . . I don't think it was carrying any mail."  
  
Molly turned back to the cauldron and held her empty hands over the flames. The fire was too cold and they needed to brew more quickly; she needed to start dinner soon; something was wrong with her daughter.  
  
"Well, I'll have to mention it at the next meeting. People don't train their owls well enough these days, I tell you."  
  
The knife was being moved steadily up and down, pausing momentarily when Ginny brought more ingredients onto the cutting board, and then moving again.  
  
*Perhaps she's still shaken about Harry,* Molly guessed - but wouldn't it be silly for her to be so upset when he was clearly going to be fine? As Molly surveyed Ginny more, small things began to occur to her - the white around her knuckles, the thinness of her lips, the rigid posture, her hand movements growing perpetually slower. She was beginning to panic.  
  
"Ginny, shall I make some tea?"  
  
Ginny looked up at her mother now. The inflection of the words she easily recognized as what her mother had used after she'd almost drowned in the creek near her house when she was six. She also remembered it from sitting alone with her mother in the kitchen -- much as she was now -- upon her return from her first year at Hogwarts. It was unquestioned that this was Mrs. Weasley's almost ever-successful tactic for getting the boys, who were generally closer to their father (or too full of pride to talk at all) to discuss something very important.  
  
"I'm fine, mum. I was just . . . very worried about Harry." She laid the knife on the table. "Shaken up, you know. I think . . . I need to go upstairs and rest it off, if you don't mind. Yell for me when the muscle reliever's done, will you?" She stood up and closed the distance to her mother quickly, kissing her cheek and turning. Before Molly could say anything Ginny turned and practically fled the kitchen, leaving Molly quite alone.  
  
--  
  
The sight of Harry falling off his broom was horrifying to the point that for a brief second she felt as if she was falling, she was hitting the ground, the pain absolutely crippling. The charcoal had slipped from her hands and she, following instinct, had screamed as loud as she could. Hermione had looked up then and seen Harry, and ran to his aid, wand in hand. She hadn't looked to Ginny and Ron surely didn't register the piercing scream; only Ginny felt that surge of physical empathy that stunned her. She managed to stand just as Hermione magicked Harry's body, limp and suspended in mid-air, into the house.  
  
She was reeling from the fact that when she was sure she'd seen Harry fall, her eyes were closed.  
  
As she left the kitchen her movements were as fluid and swift as she could make them, her jean-covered legs moving gracefully in long steps that carried her past the other three teenagers (none of whom, she was sure, even noticed her pass by). She took the steps upstairs two at a time and when she reached her door she was almost sprinting - she heaved herself against the bed and buried her face in her pillow. Ginny heaved in sharp, restricted breaths.  
  
She stayed that way for several long minutes trying to suck all the air she could through her feather pillow. The force of her breathing was beginning to make her dizzy, though, and she slowly rolled herself over so she teetered on the edge of the bed. Calm, deep breaths. In, out, in, out . . .  
  
Her eyes had been closed, she was sure now. She had been looking at her sketchpad, her hand groping the table blindly for her kneaded rubber eraser, when her headache seemed to peak. She'd brought her hand against her forehead - her eyes were not only closed but completely shielded - but then, there was the blinding sun, the almost-white sky, and Harry looking at her, then turning away, ignorant to the owl coming at him . . . when her hand moved from her eyes Hermione was nearly to Harry.  
  
There had to be a logical explanation, of course. Perhaps she suffered a relapse of the charm Colin had put on her in Charms class that turned her hand into glass. Since he'd removed the spell he cast, perhaps he didn't remove it thoroughly. Or perhaps she'd actually seen it through the cracks between her fingers and didn't realize it. Perhaps it was an after-effect of the spell she'd performed - or tried to perform -- on herself during the tri-wizard tournament her third year, when she was convinced he needed her protection (*Some good that did him,* she added ruefully to the thought). Perhaps . . . perhaps, she'd seen him with her eyes closed.  
  
Ginny bit her lip.  
  
It made her wish she could go back to the library and look over the old spell she'd cast more thoroughly, or that she could find a time turner to go back and watch herself closely. Of course, it didn't make any sense, but she was a witch. Logic had a completely different meaning to her kind than it did to non-magical people. She didn't know how much more she could think about this; she didn't have patience for things she didn't understand.  
  
Ginny strained her neck to glimpse the floor near her bed and saw the book that had lay there, forgotten since the morning, and with a swinging arm grabbed it by a frayed piece of binding in one fell swoop. The cover was blank and smooth but for the lower right-hand corner which, though the gold foiling had flaked off years ago, still had gently impressed the words Gwinevere Weasley on the cover. Her self-replenishing parchment book - a book of fine paper that, after a letter was written would carefully tear out, fold itself, and slide into an envelope. To her recollection it was the only gift from her Aunt Marion she'd actually liked, and a gift she'd made use of whenever she could manage to find the quills she lost so often. The book seemed to beckon her now, though, and as she rolled back to towards the center of the bed the piece of binding she'd grabbed tore and the book landed next to her, opened to a page with only one short line, which was scratched through more than thoroughly -  
  
Dear Harry -  
  
She sighed. Almost ten pages were identical to that - all of which she started out whole-heartedly, though she could never seem to make it past the greeting. She was too afraid of what she might say.  
  
Her thoughts briefly strayed to the occurrences of the year prior, and she bit her lip - it was almost the anniversary. Two days until, to be exact. And she couldn't seem to write a letter to him while avoiding the subject. When Ginny was speaking, she could manage to avoid the truth, but when she wrote she found it damned near impossible not to write what was on her mind. With other attempts she'd made it a sentence or two before beginning to hint towards the attack; Ginny's instinct was always to speak her feelings in situations like that, though it was apparent that Ginny had to ignore those instincts more often than not, for Harry's sake. He didn't want to talk about it, and even on such a topic as that, she wouldn't push it. She had no right.  
  
Ginny closed the book and brought it to her chest. She fell asleep clutching it, oblivious to the sunlight on her face, and murmured softly in a dream she wouldn't remember when she woke up.  
  
--  
  
Arthur Weasley sat heavily at the table and nodded a thanks to Molly as he picked up the steaming teacup. His face was soft and warm and the creases at the edge of his eyes deepened as he raised them to his wife.  
  
"Eventful day, I'm guessing," he said.  
  
"Very," Molly said. She sat opposite him, her elbows propping her on the table. It was the first time that afternoon she'd gotten a chance to stop running around and she sat contently to take full advantage of the little time she had to rest. "I certainly wish I'd have known he was coming," she sighed. "I wouldn't have left, of course and I could have cleaned the house a bit."  
  
Arthur's face went a bit pink. "Yes . . . sorry about that. I meant to say something last night, of course. With the ministry and all, I've been preoccupied. Er - he's fine, then?"  
  
"I think so. I'm sure he must have a broken bone or two, but Hermione put a still-bone spell on him as soon as she could in case he's hurt his back."  
  
"And the doctor?"  
  
"Zora said she'd send her husband over to check up as soon as he returned from his hike up Kilamanjaro. He should be back tomorrow." Molly poured another cup of tea for her husband and saw that he was frowning. "What?"  
  
"You didn't call Doctor Thurmond?" he asked.  
  
"In his old age?! He can barely remember his own name, and I won't have him treating any of my children. It's far past time for him to go, if you ask me."  
  
"Yes, but he's a friend of the family, you know."  
  
"Arthur, I know he was your father's friend, but remember, that's because he was your father's doctor when he was a child. And even then he was incompetent."  
  
"Well Doctor Hurston is just so expensive. If we don't watch he'll rob us blind. We'd do better to take him to St. Mungo's . . ."  
  
"Oh, nonsense. He won't be too expensive. Zora and I are close friends, and she and Neal know our situation. And at least Harry will get the proper care."  
  
Molly Weasley's face was easy to read - there was no way any other doctor would get near Harry, and Arthur had no say in it; in any case he knew she was probably right. He had to admit, his wife was, if not forceful, a very convincing woman and he loved her all the more for it.  
  
"Well, yes. It's not the money, though - I just hope Strom doesn't find out."  
  
It was at that moment the front door burst open and Ron and Hermione came in carrying paper grocery bags. Both of them seemed rather winded.  
  
"'Lo mum, dad," Ron said, and Hermione did the same as they set the bags on the table. "We got everything you wanted but the leeks because they weren't too fresh, and we picked up some McMillians since Ginny said we had a bad batch. What're we having?" He looked up when his father gasped.  
  
"I completely forgot," he exclaimed, shaking his head. "Gracious . . ."  
  
"Forgot what?" Hermione asked.  
  
"When I got Mrs. Beukelaer's cat out of that tree she was so grateful she told me I could bring the family into The Silver Toadstool any time for free. After I arranged Harry's arrival I made reservations for tonight -"  
  
"At The Silver Toadstool?!" Molly exclaimed. Her cheeks were quickly turning pink. "My goodness, that's the most prominent wizarding restaurant in Ottery St. Catchpole . . ."  
  
"No kidding," Ron laughed. "You have to wear dress robes to drive by it."  
  
"I arranged a ministry car to pick us up and everything . . ."  
  
"Oh, dear," Molly said slowly. "Well, we don't have to go, Arthur dear, it's alright." She smiled, attempting to hide disappointment, when a faint voice from the living room carried into the kitchen.  
  
"Mrs. Weasley?" Harry croaked softly from behind the door and quickly she set her tea down and scurried into the living room, the crowd trailing close behind.  
  
On the couch, Harry appeared to have just woken up. His eyes were rather dazed and his cheeks were flushed - one pinker than the other from the fall - he had a slightly unpleasant look on his face and was beginning to get slightly sticky from laying on the couch under and blanket in late July.  
  
"Harry, dear, what do you need?" she brushed the hair from his forehead, most of which fell back into place as if it hadn't been touched, and put a hand on her wand pocket, prepared to cast comfort or still-bone charms.  
  
Harry smiled at her, embarrassed, but his face was determined. "If you've made reservations for that restaurant, then go."  
  
The replies came quickly - all four shook their heads and said something close to "Nonsense, Harry,", or "That's absurd,".  
  
"No," Arthur said, "I won't hear of it. It's for you, after all, and there's absolutely no way I'm going to leave you here alone."  
  
"No," Harry said quietly, "I'd feel much better if you went. In fact, I demand that you go. After all, if it's my night we should do what I wish, right? Nothing would please me more than for you all to go out. And you've made reservations -"  
  
"Harry, we can't leave you here!"  
  
"Surely you can. I've been in the hospital wing more than half my life - one night alone won't kill me."  
  
And so went the bantering between Harry and the other four until there was little time left for them to prepare. The young man made an awfully convincing case and, though Molly swore she'd never forgive herself, she decided he could fend for himself that night and the family would benefit from a night out. Hermione hurried upstairs to wake Ginny and change into her dress robes and Ron did the same, whilst Molly hurried around the bottom floor of the house, collecting items Harry might need while they were out.  
  
"Harry, I've put everything on the coffee table here - it's charmed to come to you if you speak its name - and Arthur showed Mildred Scalthe how to use some Muggle Talker-Walkies. If you need anything," she said, placing a small black device in his hand, "press that button and speak to her like you would with a tellyphone. She'll stop by to check up on you sometime during the evening in any case, if I can't get to a free Floo booth. Is there anything else?"  
  
"Maybe a bit more of the sleeping potion you gave me earlier?"  
  
"Oh . . . of- of course, darling . . . " She went into the kitchen and came out a moment later with a cup in her hands. "I put a bit less in it this time. Are you sure you'll be all right? We can still stay if you need."  
  
He smiled gratefully and drank it, inhaling the vapors and laying his had against the pillow. "Thank you very much. I should be fine."  
  
"Well." She said. "In any case . . . We'll check up on you."  
  
Then she flicked her wand, and right as a muffled horn honked outside her robes became dark green dress robes, and she pinned her hair in a loose bun with a green comb. She kissed him on the cheek and Harry, blushing, quickly fell into the realm of sleep.  
  
Ron waltzed down the steps rather clumsily in an attempt to flaunt his practically new dress robe, one which actually fit very well, an Hermione followed momentarily. Arthur returned from Mrs. Scalthe's house ("She was quite eager to learn about the Talker-Walkie!", he exclaimed upon arriving), transfigured his work robes to dress robes and stood in front of the other three, smiling at his wife.  
  
"Dear, you look lovely. Oh -- where's Ginny?"  
  
"I just woke her up. She should be coming down in a second." Molly frowned. Hermione started to speak again but was cut off by a pop that accompanied Molly's disappearance and, some long moments later, the sound of footsteps coming quickly down the stairs. Ginny's voice resounded in the small house.  
  
"We're leaving Harry?"  
  
"Mildred will look after him, dear," Molly offered, but Ginny looked none too happy as she entered the kitchen. Arthur assumed it was because she'd just woken up.  
  
The redheaded young woman began restyle her long, thick hair quickly while Molly adjusted Ginny's dress robe. It was fairly new (less than a year old) and was a simple green one that almost matched her mother's. It was simple, but suited her very well.  
  
"Shall we go then?" said Arthur, and the horn honked again. Molly looked around, nodded her consent, and the five trailed out of the house, leaving it a great deal quieter.  
  
--  
  
A/N - A big thanks to anyone who's continued reading this, as it did disappear for quite a while. I promise it's back for good. :-) And a gigantic thanks to Amy, the beta straight from the heavens, and to Rachel, for threatening my life if I didn't send this in. 


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